My Husband Has A Mullet

BUT! By the time you finish reading this, perhaps I can say My Husband Has A Mullet.

I need your help with this. All of you. Each and every one.

See, my husband has a special day coming up soon.

And I think if we put our hearts together and collectively wished really hard for him, maybe, just maybe, he’ll have a mullet in time for his birthday this weekend.

A mullet and a slice of pie. Humble pie, that is. (He likes pie.)

A mullet, a slice of humble pie and a hard slap of truth across his White Anglo-Saxon metropolitan-elitist cheek.

I don’t know whether he’s ever had a mullet before. This could be the first time. This could be the fifth time. I can’t be sure.

The subject came up last week during a conversation about — oh, I don’t know — perhaps we were debating the cultural contributions of Billy Ray Cyrus, perhaps we were discussing the fuzz on the block of Swiss cheese I threw out.

But there we were talking about mullets and there I asked the question.

Did you ever have a mullet?

Under normal circumstances, this is the type of critical information about your spouse that you’d already know after 10 years of marriage. Did you ever try to kill someone? Did you dance the Macarena? Did you ever have a mullet?

And he pretty much destroyed every piece of photographic evidence that he physically existed during the period of 1987 to 1991 (otherwise known as The Mullet Era).

It’s like the 18-minute gap on the Watergate tapes. It’s like how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Roll Pop.

Did my husband have a mullet? The world may never know.

He might have another family, too. I can’t be certain of anything anymore.

“Did I have a mullet?” He turned and looked at me with disgust, like I just accused him of having eyelashes sprouting from his tear ducts. (He does.) Then he stated coolly, matter-of-factly, “People didn’t have those where I grew up.”

Time out. Now this is where I provide some background to help you make sense of why this statement cut me like a knife.

I grew up in a rural community. Tiny. Microscopic. And my husband would be quick to point out that his school cafeteria was more populated than my hometown, that my entire graduating class would’ve fit inside the pottery kiln in his senior high art room.

“What do you mean people didn’t have mullets where you grew up?” By then I was feeling mildly pissed off by what he was insinuating.

And then he threw it at me — out of his mouth like a searing hot spear to the gut.

“Mullets were just a small town thing.”

There.

“I don’t remember a single person inmy class having a mullet.”

There again. I’m bleeding by now.

And just like that, the de-evolution of civilization as we know it, blamed once again on the country bumpkins.

But I’ve never been one to cower in the face of social injustice. Oh no. Because that’s when I threw back my shoulders — heart pounding, lip quivering, fists clenching — and climbed atop my mullet soap box.

“I’ll have you know (imagine here that my finger is poking him in the chest — it wasn’t but just imagine this) that mullets were in every city *voice breaks* in America! Mullets showed no geographic discrimination!”

And this is when I brought the house down. (Cue The Battle Hymn of the Republic on the cassette tape player.)

“Mullets did not see black or white, mullets did not see rich or poor. Mullets did not see anything but the human race!

Mullets crossed the bridges of social class, socioeconomic status, race, ethnicity, age, gender, sexual orientation, physical capabilities. Mullets were for everyone — of, by and for the People.

It didn’t matter if you were Joe Sixpack or George Clooney . . .

. . . or Michael J. Fox . . .

. . . or Mel Gibson . . .

. . . or Brad Pitt . . .

. . . who you are never mattered to mullets.

In fact, mullets might have been the greatest shining symbols of equality our country has ever known.”

(I’ll pause to give you time to collect yourselves.)

By the time I had finished speaking, I’m certain my husband knew just how wrong he was. In fact, while he might not have said it in so many words, I believe he was feeling sorry that he ever judged mullets. Maybe he wished he’d known them better. Maybe he wished he had one.

*~* Wish? Did someone say wish? *~*

Remember when I asked earlier that you all wish really hard?

Well just look what we were able to accomplish . . .

Happy birthday to my darling beloved husband.

Remember — the mullet stands with you and never against you, no matter who you are.

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I (gulp) had a mullet — waaaay after mullet season, thanks to my mum’s failed attempt at cutting my hair. Also, I was way too old for her to be playing hairdresser all of a sudden. I still run if I see scissors in her hands…

Oh, I have to add that I once gave my husband a reverse mullet. I couldn’t quite figure out how to use the hair clippers. This happened the day before he met my grandparents for the first and only time, so that was a little awkward for him.

What a sad story of betrayal! It’s okay, Gilly — I had a mullet intentionally. It occurred around 1995. I didn’t see it at the time (alas, I was so blind) because it was supposed to be a chic 70s-esque shag. I later saw a photo of the ‘do in a box of college stuff, and I began weeping truth from my ocular cavities.

Happy birthday to the guy with the mullet! I have to tell ya, mullets made it to every small town and major city in Canada, in case you need this information. I lived in small rural towns as well as cities and they were everywhere.

I also had a mullet! (Connecticut represent) It was a short haircut that grew out. With no additional cutting, only the back grew. Strange? Yes. Surprising? Definitely. An unexpected look for a 5th grade girl? Um…all signs point to yes. Choppy on top with a tail in the back is NOT a good look on a little girl blossoming into womanhood. That picture you posted of Mel Gibson is a surprising exact match for my 5th grade school portrait.

LOL Any number of male photos from the 80’s (especially the mullet variety!) could have been taken to the hair salon by any woman, “I’d like to do THIS, please.” I certainly had one, only mine aspired to more of a Brad PItt. In the 90’s, it was more David Lee Roth.

Yay, Connecticut! It’s okay, MC. It helps if we talk about it. I confessed on a comment above that I also had a mullet — a 1995 shag-wannabe that in fact was a mullet. For me, it was like the Emperor’s New Clothes where I was walking around thinking I had a shag and all the village people were saying, “Shhhhhh! don’t tell her it’s a mullet!”

Ah, so sweet! Mullets RULE! They’re the great combination of “nice boy,” properly managed approved-by-mom-and-dad hair cut…with a little bit of “bad boy” that can easily be tucked down the back of a shirt in a pony tail. HA! Let’s see you do that with a Beatle’s bowl cut.

Angie, I was getting teary-eyed during your speech while The Battle Hymn of the Republic on the cassette tape player. (Nice job on cassette tape player mention.) I stood up with my hand on my heart. I kept uttering, “Amen!” “Preach it Sister!” “Yes!” I tried to locate my mullet flag, but I was unsuccessful. (It’s probably in the same box with my bolo.)

You moved me – your soap box tribute to mullets moved me. Mullets moved me.

Happy birthday to your closet mullet man. May he find the confidence to come out of the closet at some point in his life. We are here waiting, and we will accept him.

I grew up just outside NYC and I can assure you that there were mullets aplenty in my middle school and high school yearbooks in the mid to late 1980s. As you proved so eloquently and maturely, they were not just a country bumpkin haircut.

Your hubby’s level of animosity toward this innocent coiffure can mean only one thing – he is blocking out the painful memories of his own mullet-filled adolescence. Perhaps some deep hypnosis would be an appropriate birthday present, to help him get in touch with his inner Billy Ray Cyrus? (guffawing like a loon here, Angie.)

We were playing Pictionary with friends a few years back and someone drew a basic stick figure and then started to draw a mullet on it, and immediately a person correctly guessed Billy Ray Cyrus. Mullets are basically his legacy.

Dear Angie,
Your writing really needs to be a syndicated column. Although this was a very funny piece, I like that there is the underlying message about smalltown stereotyping and your response. My mother grew up on a dairy farm, and she was teased at school. Laughter and tears are very close, aren’t they? But back to a lighter note. Happy birthday to your husband, and I like the photo you retouched.
Amy

I’m with your husband, Angie. Having grown up in Omaha, we were city-folk. And mullets were just not part of our city culture. I imagine they were prevalent in Broken Bow, Gothenburg, Crete, and Beatrice, however.

Now we could shake our Achy-Breaky, um, hearts, but rockin’ the mullet – um, no!

Okay, maybe there were a few outsiders in my graduating class of 700. Possibly. Do you think they were from small towns? :)

Hmm….methinks Pegolegomyeggo is onto something here… Perhaps his mullet was the mulletiest mullet that ever existed. There has to be proof of this somewhere. And it is now your mission to find it and expose your dear husband right here on this blog. I have a feeling his mullet rivals even that of the Best Mullet Ever: Jesse on Full House.

I don’t know — I’ve never, ever seen a photo of him from that era and we’re at his parents’ house all the time. He might’ve even set fire to his school’s archives. Which would be highly illegal yet worth it to him.

Holy crap, it goes back that far? DeBarge was my first interracial crush — I must’ve been too delirious after my YMCA junior aerobics workout to Rhythm of the Night to even notice what mess of mullet he was sporting on his head.

There *must* be a photograph. Somewhere. In a box. In a basement. You need to dig deeper on this one, Angie. I think this story’s got legs. You’re gonna blow this thing wide open. Even kids in the big city had mullets. Starting with your hubs.

Your mullet post was everything I hoped it could be. So funny. I don’t want to get all up in your business and stuff, but it seems to me like the best thing your husband could do for your next birthday is grow a mullet. Nothing says “I love you” like self-inflicted humiliation.

I cannot personally testify to the existence of mullets in cities because during the time in question I was strictly small town, but TV doesn’t lie. Nobody famous does anything because it is trending only in the small towns, and there were tons of famous people on TV sporting the mullet. The way your *voice breaks* during your heartfelt speech made me proud to have come of age in the 80’s. Totally bitchin!

mullet with the prairie braids, mullet with a rat tail, mullet with the long bangs over one eye, mullet with a perm, cornrowed mullet with shaved designs on the sides, mullet pulled into a banana clip, mullet with a bandanna for a hairband (are you hearing Forrest Gump’s voice run down this list, ala shrimp?)

No, but I did during my Dazed and Confused phase in college. And I know you did. And I’m so glad I had the pleasure of seeing your mullet, in all its glory, in that video where you were perfecting your father-son hand jive. Bonding through hand jives and mullets — that’s why we procreate.

Of course you did, Byronic Man. I could’ve bet money you once had a mullet. Speaking of hiding things and MC Hammer-pants, you could hide about anything in MC Hammer-pants. I knew a kid who used them as his book bag.

Well, Angie. I think he OWES it to you at this point, after a) that comment he had the nerve to make, b) your awe-inspiring argument, and c) hiding any potential evidence (didn’t he/his mother know you were going to start this blog?!).

Wow, I never thought about that — just the ability to grow a mullet is probably a luxury when you’re middle aged. That explains why Michael Bolton kept his thinning mullet for oh-so long. Thanks for the blogroll listing! I don’t have a blogroll. I probably need to get on that.

Could you keep the post quality down a bit please? I am now 75th in the line to make a comment (“thanks for calling, your call is important to us, there is 3 hour wait, please hold”). New Zealand IS a small town so pretty much everyone had mullets in the 80s here.

I rarely feel the need to jump into one of my wife’s posts and defend myself – thankfully she’s obeying our cardinal rule of never tossing me to the blogger wolves – but I feel I must speak up about my lack of a mullet in the face of Jules’ malicious accusations. Et tu, Julute?

I was much too busy being uncool and living in social ostracization hell because of my propensity to look like a Canadian Lesbian (think Seattle grunge of 1990 meets Androgyny and you’re there!) to have made time for a mullet. Pics don’t exist from this time period because i did mankind, and Canada, a favor and burnt them all.

Perhaps mullets did indeed attack large and small towns alike like a pack of wild dogs on the last turkey leg bone of society, but I was too busy jamming out to pearl jam in my plaid shirt and unisex Pepe jeans to bother to pay attention. Yes, that’s my defense and it’s a lock solid as the 5th amendment. .

A D.A.R.E program would be a fantastic way to cure the world of the use of mullets. But I hope you won’t go so far as to say we should make them illegal. Oh, no. Bad idea. Because history shows that making them illegal is what causes a rise in organized crime.